


fixation or psychosis

by sirenofodysseus



Category: The Mentalist
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - FBI, Grieving O'Laughlin, Lots of Cursing, M/M, My poor babies, No Red John, Painkillers, Wainwright never joins the CBI
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-23
Updated: 2017-01-23
Packaged: 2018-09-19 08:26:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9430040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sirenofodysseus/pseuds/sirenofodysseus
Summary: AU. Wainwright merely blinks at him. “How about we both just meet in the middle and call me very hopeful?”





	

**Author's Note:**

> I have an on-going love affair for Craig O'Laughlin & Luther Wainwright. I mean, both men are just SO pretty (and tragic) that I can't help but be drawn to them. <3

Craig O’Laughlin hates shrinks, almost as much as he hates his own father. He’s been with the FBI for nearly a decade and he’s seen almost _every_ deplorable thing (and person) one can imagine, because California is a pretty fucked up place, yet he’s never been forced to see the departmental shrink before.

            Of course, that was _before_ they found the two bottles of port in his bottom desk drawer and the pills in his pocket. Or, before the shootout that had cost him his partner of five years. He supposes he should be thankful that he’s not out on his ass, but in all honesty—he doesn’t give a flying fuck anymore. His partner should have _never_ been tasked to stakeout a _suspected_ serial killer’s residence, especially without backup—but the Boss had ignored protocol and now, his partner was dead and _he_ was sitting before _L. Wainwright’s_ office, twiddling his damn thumbs for a supposed alcohol and drug problem.

            Sliding forward in the cheap plastic chair, he almost considers just leaving. After all, what could they do to him? Reprimand him? Fire him? _Arrest_ him? It’s a funny enough thought that he almost chuckles, just as the door to _L. Wainwright_ ’s office opens. He doesn’t glance up at the shrink, even as he’s ushered into the stark white office and is told to “pick a seat”, because he doesn’t need to some sixty-year-old idiot.  

 

            “Good afternoon, Agent O’Laughlin,” the shrink greets, after he’s claimed the chair furthest from the shrink’s desk. He waits for the reprimand of his seating choice, but the shrink continues to talk as if they’re _not_ seating feet apart. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. My name is Luther Wainwright.” Craig says nothing and finally, he hears papers being shuffled around. “I understand that Agent Delaney discovered the bottles of port in your desk?” Craig rolls his eyes, still staring at the floor. Delaney was an _incompetent_ ass, who enjoyed being fucked up the ass. The fact _Delaney_ had been the idiot to discover his trove still baffled him, but he wasn’t about to let Wainwright onto that little fact. Not when he supposes the next question out of the man’s mouth would more-than-likely be, _why would you drink on the job?_ Not as if the answer isn’t obvious, but hey, nobody said the IA personnel were goddamn geniuses. “Not that I don’t understand the need to drink, but _why_ port?” Wainwright’s question surprises the hell out of him and he glances upwards, only to find that Wainwright isn’t some _sixty-year-old_ idiot. Actually, Wainwright’s a _young_ idiot. “Port tastes like shit.”

            Craig narrows his eyes. “And what do you drink, _Dr._ Wainwright? Chocolate milk?” Wainwright eyes him, a smile spreading across his young face and Craig _almost_ wishes they had let him keep his gun.

            “You can call me Luther, Agent O’Laughlin,” Wainwright replies, still smiling. Craig keeps his eyes narrowed. “Dr. Wainwright is my sister.” Craig doesn’t reply and Wainwright chuckles. “You don’t trust me, do you?”

            “What gave you _that_ impression, Dr. Wainwright?” Craig asks and Wainwright meets his gaze for a moment. “I obviously have _so_ much trust for a shrink that I’ve _only_ just met. It’s astonishing, really.” Craig rolls his eyes again, before he adds, “you must either be _really_ dense or just _extremely_ stupid.”

            Wainwright merely blinks at him. “How about we both just meet in the middle and call me _very_ hopeful?”

             

            Craig doesn’t laugh.

 

::::

 

            “You _do_ know how this thing between us works, yes?” Wainwright asks, after their fourth session in two weeks. “You talk, I report favorable progress and you _eventually_ get to leave.”

            “That would mean I’d actually have to give a shit first,” Craig fires back. Wainwright leans backwards within his desk chair, before he starts to message the temples of his forehead, which amuses Craig. “Headache? I’d suggest port for that, but apparently, you have shit taste in alcohol.”

            “Ha,” Wainwright replies dryly, while Craig leans forward within his own armchair. “Is that what drove you to drink or self-medicate, Agent? Headaches?” Craig grimaces. “Last I checked, the bottom drawer of your desk wasn’t a liquor store.” He doesn’t reply immediately, because Wainwright’s suggestion is _almost_ as idiotic as the man before him is.

            “And here I thought you were supposed to be a shrink.”

            Wainwright eyes him. “Ah, sarcasm.”

            “Try realism.” Wainwright leans forward in his chair, only to rest his hands upon his desk. “It’s bullshit that I’m being _forced_ to come in here, twice a week, only to be asked if my drinking problem relates to a _headache_.” Craig stands from his chair. “Do you realize how _idiotic_ that sounds?”

            “So, you admit you have a drinking problem?” Wainwright questions and Craig makes two fists. “It’s alright if you do. I don’t press judgment, Agent O’Laughlin.” Craig almost calls _bullshit_ , because _nobody_ is nonjudgmental. Craig also wants to smash the asshole’s face in for automatically assuming he’s an alcoholic, but that’s a different matter altogether. “I would imagine that most of the men and women in this line of work drink.” Luther pauses, before he tilts his head slightly. “Did your partner drink?”

            Craig bares his teeth, before he slams one of his balled fists against Wainwright’s wall. One of the framed certificates falls from the wall and the glass cracks. “Fuck you. Just _fuck you_.” Wainwright opens his mouth, but Craig’s already out of the room and down the corridor.

 

::::

 

            Craig doesn’t glance up from his drink, as Wainwright sits down across from him. The shrink removes his grey peacoat and folds his hands on the table, forgoing a menu and ordering two glasses of water.  

 

            “I suppose I should apologize,” Wainwright begins, after the bartender leaves. Craig doesn’t glance at him. “When I was assigned to meet with you, I was told very little of the…incident. I should have gathered my sources, before assuming…”

            “That my partner was an alcoholic?” Craig asks, but not before downing his gin and tonic. “I can assure you, he wasn’t.”

            “I know that now,” Wainwright states lowly and Craig glances upwards, meeting the apologetic gaze of Wainwright. “I’m sorry for your loss.” Craig tightens his lips for a moment, before he motions for the bartender to bring him another drink. He waits for Wainwright to comment on his drinking habits, but the shrink merely twiddles his thumbs and sips at his own glass of water. “I know it can’t be easy to lose a partner, especially on the job.”

            “And how would you know that, _Doctor_?” Craig replies, snapping. “You’re a _doctor_. The worst thing you’ve probably experienced is a papercut.”

            Wainwright tilts his head. “Is that really what you think?”

            “Yes.” Craig continues to glance at Wainwright, who suddenly appears _sad_? Craig blinks. He has absolutely no time for an emotional fucking shrink, who won’t stay out of his goddamned business.

            Wainwright glances down at his hands. “Regardless of what you believe, Agent O’Laughlin, not all shrinks are paper pushers.” Craig snorts and watches as Wainwright stands from the booth, only to toss down twenty dollars. “I think this will cover it. I’ll see you in my office tomorrow morning.”

            “Fuck off,” Craig says, half-heartedly, as he glances back down at his empty glass.

 

::::

 

            “Sherry,” Wainwright says, two minutes after Craig collapses into one of the armchairs before Wainwright’s desk. He grimaces up at the shrink, unamused at the early hour (and the sun, which streamed through the shrink’s office). “You asked, on our first session, what I drank. It’s Sherry.”

            “Amusing,” Craig answers, before he closes his eyes. “Can you _please_ shut the goddamn blinds? I’ve got a headache.” He hears Wainwright shuffle around and the fluttering of blinds, before he opens his eyes again and sighs comfortably. Wainwright might be an ass but at least he can be a merciful ass. “Thank you.”

            “I was starting to wonder if you had proper manners.”

            Craig eyes him. “I won’t be thanking you again, _Dr._ Wainwright.” He can’t contain his amusement at the grimace on the shrink’s face at his proper title.

            “How much did you drink last night, Agent O’Laughlin?”

            “Enough.” Craig vaguely remembers the first glass of gin and tonic and his third glass of scotch, but aside from his surprise exchange with Wainwright, his memory is pretty hazy. He’s not going to let the shrink know that, however, as he’s not about to be forced into rehab. “Thanks for the money, by the way.”

            “Glad to know I could be supporting your drink habit,” Wainwright fires back and Craig suddenly shifts, uncomfortable at Wainwright’s lingering gaze. “Agent O’Laughlin, this is our fifth session together. I obviously don’t expect a large breakthrough from you, but by now, most of my patients have bit the preverbal bullet by _accepting_ that these sessions don’t stop, until I agree that you’re of sound mind.”  

            “Is that before or after they kill themselves from boredom?” Craig asks and judging by the unamused expression on Wainwright’s face, Craig _already_ knows the man is thinking he’s suicidal. “And before you chase _that_ particular comment; I’ve never been suicidal or homicidal. I’m not a psychopath.”

 “You don’t have to be a psychopath to be suicidal,” Wainwright calmly points out. Craig makes no comment. “You’ve seen many unimaginable things, Agent O’Laughlin.”

“Obviously.”

“Including, but not limited to, the unfortunate death of your partner.” Craig opens his mouth to rebuke, but Wainwright continues. “You weren’t even supposed to be there. Your supervisor had assigned you to a different task…”

“…My _supervisor_ ,” Craig interrupts, bitterly, “thought it was an overwhelmingly _good_ idea to separate the both of us…”

“Only because of the supposed rumors about you both sleeping together?” Craig runs his fingers through his hair, absolutely frustrated at the elementary bullshit. “It’s not hard to see the accuracy in that particular statement, Agent.” Craig says nothing, his headache building. “Craig…”

“Agent O’Laughlin.”

“Agent O’Laughlin,” Wainwright continues, unmoved by the interruption. “You abandoned your post to come to the aid of your partner, who…”

“He ended up being _shot_ in the head by a now-confirmed serial killer.” Craig finishes for him, suddenly recalling the brain-splattered interior of the FBI SUV with a flinch. “Yeah, thanks for the reminder.”

            “You tried to save him.”

            “I got there too late.”

            Wainwright purses his lips together. “You blame yourself.”

            “Wouldn’t you?”

 

::::

 

_“Anderson’s a goddamn asshole_ ,” Craig had told his partner, who had merely chuckled from his desk. _“Sending_ you _to stakeout a_ suspected _serial killer, alone.”_ Craig had shaken his head. “ _There are at, the very least, five different protocols against this.”_

_“And what are you going to do about it, O’Laughlin?”_ His partner had questioned, cocking an eyebrow. “ _Complain to the board? Report Anderson to IA?”_ There had been a snort of derision. _“The moment you open your mouth about Anderson’s unfair actions; he’ll take us both to IA on claims of an interdepartmental relationship.”_

            Craig had grimaced. _“You’re telling me we’re the only individuals in this department, who are actually fucking?”_ His partner said nothing and Craig snorted. _“Hate to break this unholy news to you, but a good quarter of the department is fucking.”_  His partner had only laughed.

 

            Ten hours and one bullet later, his partner was dead.

 

::::

 

            “Now, I think you’re just following me,” Craig tells Wainwright, as the shrink joins him in the booth again. Craig, of course, isn’t surprised—because there’s only _one_ cop bar in town and Craig’s not stupid enough to journey to a drug front. “It’s Friday night, _Dr._ Wainwright. Go out and have some fun or something.” Wainwright says nothing for a moment, until the bartender approaches and Wainwright orders a sherry. Craig can’t help but side-eye the shrink. “Well, apparently, you _are_ letting lose tonight. Isn’t it an ethical quandary though to drink with a _supposed_ alcoholic, who is your client?”  

            “Probably,” Wainwright explains with a shrug. “However, it _is_ a Friday night and all of the tables are packed.” Craig glances about the room to find Wainwright’s comment to be highly accurate. “I didn’t quite feel like sitting with Jamie from Accounting.”

            “Figured you IA-types flocked together,” Craig comments as the bartender returns with Wainwright’s sherry. Wainwright thanks him. “Something about _birds of a feather_ or some shit like that.”

            “This wouldn’t be the first time you’ve been incorrect, Agent O’Laughlin.” Wainwright takes a sip of his sherry. “We IA-types aren’t villains. We’re just doing our jobs.” Craig takes a sip from his beer, before he glances toward Wainwright.

            “It’s Craig,” Craig corrects and Wainwright blinks slowly. “I feel weird being addressed as _Agent O’Laughlin_ by a man, who continues to wear a peacoat and drinks sherry.”

            “Then, for the love of God, stop calling me _Dr._ Wainwright,” Wainwright answers and Craig chuckles at the earnest request. “It’s either Luther _or_ Wainwright; not Dr. Wainwright.”

            “As you wish,” Craig tells and Wainwright laughs – and regardless of the fact alcohol _might_ be clouding his judgment, he thinks Wainwright has a nice laugh. And a pretty face. And an even prettier ass, which Craig _may or may not_ have been checking out. “So, _Luther_ , I’ve been dying to ask – have you always wanted to be a proverbial cog in the IA machine or did you once dream of becoming an astronaut?”

            Wainwright eyes him. “I doubt you’ve always wanted to know this.”

            “Yeah, you’re right,” Craig agrees with another sip of his drink. “But still. Did you?” Wainwright eyes him for a long moment, almost as if he’s debating an answer to his question, before he tosses back his drink. Wainwright sputters and Craig eyes him.

            “No, not always,” Wainwright admits, coughing again. “I was a cop once.”

 

::::

 

            Pooling sheets, tangled legs, one _extremely_ nude IA shrink in his bed.  

 

            And all Craig can think is _damn it._

 

 


End file.
